Digging up the past
by ISISASTARTE
Summary: Kane and Rvd look back at the cycle of Kane's lives hoping to heal old scars
1. Chapter 1

I rested my head back relaxing taking in the soft scent of Lavender,focusing on my breath."Now Kane i'm going to walk you through this"Rob softly spoke .A half hour later I was in a deep meditative state standing at the door that would lead me to my very first life or the last few memories of i walk through i'm not me anymore i see it all in remote viewing .I lie huddled in the corner of my dungeon cell. It is dark, it is cold; the air is moist and stinks. Pale light pours though a small barred window. I am alone. The straw on the floor stabs into my naked feet. The dirty sackcloth robe scratches at my bloody, abused and bruised skin. Everything hurts and throbs with numb pain. I know I will die soon.

I have confessed under the torture. I knew that it would seal my fate, but I could not stand the pain any more. I shiver and tremble as the memories of the unspeakable things they had done to me come back: Their cold hands and fingers touching my body everywhere in search for the mark. As they did not find anything to prove my guilt, they had started to hurt me for a confession. worse of all they beat me with sticks and the whip. then branding me with the glowing hot iron.

I screamed in agony, shrieked in pain. I would have done anything to end it. I confessed to crimes I had never committed; I used dark magic on the miller's wife to make her ill. I had fornicated with the Devil in the darkness of the night, and more ... I repeated my false confession in front of the priest and judge. My shivering hand was barely able to hold the goose quill. I put a sign under a sheet of paper full of words I could not read. I only wanted the pain to end, that they stop hurting me. It was my death warrant. When it was done, I was brought back to the dungeon and left alone, until ... I don't want to think of it.

But the thoughts are there. I know what will happen to me. There is only one punishment for witches - death by fire. I remember the witch burnings I have witnessed. I am the witch now. It is me who will be burnt to death. I am afraid. I am terrified. It is a slow and horrible death, to die by fire ...

I remember the pain when hot iron touched me. I was tied to a table, unable to move. It was glowing red. The sizzling sound, smell of the burning flesh, my body jerking, not able to move away from the pain rushing though my body, the shrieks that were so inhuman that I wonder if they really came from me. It burned only a small part of my body ... My finger trace the burned skin where the burning iron has touched me.

It is a "W" ... I wonder what it means ... Witch. Whore. it is not huge, not larger than my fist. Still it was enough to make me do everything in order not to feel it again. I confessed crimes I had not done, admited to sins I had not committed ... and condemned myself to death ... I cringe when I imagine the same feeling all over my body when I will be burnt alive.

I don't want to burn. I don't want to die. I have done nothing wrong. I am innocent. I lower my head to my knees. Tears stream down my dirty face, I cry and sob. Nobody comes to comfort me. Time passes and I drift into a dreamless sleep.

I wake up as I hear the bar from the heavy wooden door being removed, the hinges squeal as it opens slowly. I crouch into the corner, back away from the guards when they enter my cell. They urge me to come with them; I know where they will bring me and what is going to happen there. No, I can't go with them. My fingers clamp at the stones on the floor of my prison, try to grab hold, so hard until they start to bleed. I know what will happen when I leave the cell. I scream that I don't want to burn. I can't leave the cell.

They grab my hair and tear it violently upwards, I scream at the sudden in pain, plea to leave me alone, but they have no sympathy for me. They put my wrists into heavy manacles. I struggle, but they are too strong and drag me out of the cell. I am so fragile and weak that I can barely stand. Slowly I move through the dark corridor to the light. I blink as if seeing the sun for the first time. Even with the sun it is cold, my breath spawns a small cloud each time I exhale. I shiver, from chill and fear. The crowd is already waiting, a roar goes though them as they see me. I am half pushed, half dragged to the marketplace. Their shouts are an inaudible clamor first, but after some time I begin to catch single words.

"Witch!" "Kill her!" "Burn the Witch!" "To the stake with her!" "Thou shall not suffer a witch to live!" "Give her to the flames!" "Burn her! Burn her!" "Make her pay for what she has done to us!" "She must burn!"

They all have come to see justice done, to see me die. I know some of them, I see a few people I reconize in my current incaration they scream things at me as I limp, slowly my naked feet shuffle over the paved ground. As I get near the marketplace the mob grows bolder. Devil's Whore, Satan's Harlot, Demon Slut they call me. Not long after, they throw the garbage, stones and sticks at me. Some miss me, some hit me. I stumble to the ground as a sharp stone hits my head. I feel blood running down the side of my face. The guards interfere, yell at the crowd, shield me from the stones ... It is not form compassion; the witch should die in the flames at the stake. When the crowd stops, they haul me up again, and I continue to stagger to the place of my execution.

A tall wooden stake has been erected in the middle of the marketplace. Dry straw and wooden sticks had been piled around it. The pyre is not high, a little more than half my size. To ease the climbing they have attached a ladder at one side. This is the place where I will perish. My mouth is dry and I feel a knot in my stomach. No, this is wrong. I stumble back, away from the stake, but the guards drag and push me forward with force. I struggle, try to resist, but only delay the inevitable a little. One of them climbs the ladder and drag at the chain around my arms, while the other pushes me upwards from behind.

My bare feet step on the ladder, one rung after the other ... after four I am on top. Roughly they pull me on the pyre, the dry wood cracks and bows a bit under the combined weight of me and the guards. The branches stab into my naked sole; they push me back hard to the thick stake and loosen the manacles around my wrists. Instinctively I want to pull them in front of me, rub the sore skin to ease the pain, but before I can move my hands, they grab my arms and pull them behind the stake. I struggle to break free, but I am too weak. They use a thin rope to tie them behind the stake; it digs painfully into my wrists. I moan in anguish.

One guard is pulling a long black iron chain around my legs, waist and chest, so tight it hurts and I can barely breathe, I groan in misery. Another guard steps in front of me, blocks my vision, his gaze is hard. I can't stand his look, and lower my eyes. Out of his bag he pulls a finger thin rope, and puts it around my neck. I whisper to him, beg him to strangle me, to spare me the fire. He put the rope around my neck, I close my eyes, feel the rough cordage drawing tight ... for a second I believe he will give me that mercy, but he only fastens the rope tightly, not enough to choke me. I look at him in despair, but he does not look back and jumps from the pyre.

I am tied to the stake, alone, helpless. I squirm in the iron restraints, but the chain is so tight, and the stake is set deep into the ground. I can't escape. I can only make fists out of my fingers and open them again; it eases the pain from the bindings around my wrists a little. My eyes scan over the crowd, they all stare back, full of anticipation, full of hate. I can see the executioner; he is wearing a leather cap to hide his face but i know him from his dark eyes glittering below. He puts a torch into a brazier, dark smoke rises from it as the tar catches.

The judge steps in front of the crowd, the priest next to him. They announce my crimes, my sins, I learn my Name "bethany smith"they read my confession and that there is only one punishment for witchcraft. They don't tell what they did to me in the dungeon, how they hurt me, how they forced me to confess crimes I did not commit. On a command the executioner takes the blazing torch, the crowd suddenly goes silent.

My eyes focus only on the torch, coming more near with every passing moment. The fire flickers around the pitch, black smoke rises around the flame. No, please, not. I sob, tears streaming down my face. I shout that I am innocent, that I am no witch, that I have done nothing wrong. They can't do this, it is wrong, it is cruel. I beg them to have mercy. But there is no mercy for me ... without the slightest hesitation the executioner thrust the torch to the straw, wait a few heartbeats for the flames to leap over, then circled the pyre and lit it at several other places.

I feel nausea, bile gathering in my mouth, the knot in my stomach tighten more, my heart is beating quickly, my breath coming in quick gasps. I am in panic, already feel the heat, hear the crackling of the fire, smell the burning wood. I look down, see the shy orange tongues licking carefully over the dry branches, creeping closer, growing, spawning sparks and smoke. I choke and cough, my pleas are interrupted as the smoke becomes too thick, it hurts when I breathe. When a breeze carries the smoke away, I realize what is happening to me and continue my hopeless struggle.

I squirm and writhe in a desperate but futile attempt to escape or bring at least some distance between the flames and myself, but the chains hold me in their iron embrace. I am panting, the flames leap all around me, not higher than my knees yet. It is so hot. The heat is unbearable, I sweat, the wetness runs down my face in thick drops, my hair sticks to my face, and the sackcloth is soaked at my neckline and armpits. It stitches as the sparks and glowing cinder set down in my uncovered skin at the legs and arms, where they touch the cloth it creates a dark spot, when touched more often it smolders. The fire has not touched me yet, but it hurts, the skin on my legs is turning red, forming blisters. I moan in agony, beg for a mercy that never comes.

My pleas change to a long and wordless scream, only shortly interrupted when I breathe the searing hot air into my lungs. The flames reach me, lick over my feet and ignite the hem of the sackcloth robe. I jerk to move away, but I can't, the chains force me to remain at the stake. The pain is beyond all bearing and grows more intense every second. I can't stay, I have to move away. Maniacally I haul myself with all remaining strength into the bindings, again and again, but the stake does not buckle, the chains do not lose their iron grip. I can't stop to shriek, my whole body twitches and trembles, as I suffer the fiery torment ... the pain is more horrible than everything I had ever endured before or could imagine ... I can't stand it anymore, please let it end. God, Satan, Anyone ... but there is no answer to my prayer ... I suffer a slow and agonizing death.

The pain drives me mad, but still I am aware of what is happening to me. The flames devour me, consume me with agonising slowness, inch by inch they tear the flesh from my bones. My shrieks and screams are endless as the flames bite deep into my legs like hot glowing knives, burn my waist, my hands and fingers, lick over my belly, and touch my chest. The torment seems to lasts an eternity. I look upwards into the sky; thick columns of heavy black smoke obscure the sun, sparks drift like thousands of fireflies. I can't breathe anymore, the flames engulf me completely.

My vision blurs, everything becomes a vague shadow. The flames that dance before me dissolve into an orange mist, slowly changing to grey and black, my screams fade into moaning and then end. The panicky beating of my heart becomes calm and then stops. The roaring of the fire becomes distant, then quiets down. I feel and sense nothing anymore. No heat, no pain, no fear. I drift into the silent darkness. Not long ago the thought of death filled me with terror, now it is salvation."Kane,Kane I need you to come back to me"I start coughing even as a come through


	2. Chapter 2

**Session 2 -**"Are you ready for this time was really just nodded he had to a deep breath he went back to the door .steeping through he saw the paintin,In the portrait he saw his world. His world was smiling at him, looking at him through their blue painted eyes. A tiny brushed arm was reaching for him. He reached out, imagining the hand giggling when he touched her fingers. The kindhearted beauty holding the small one was as amused as he that a single touch could cause such joyous laughter.

His world was looking at him through the canvas. He was looking back, wishing he could step inside and live out his existence with them. He could see his world, but wasn't allowed to live with his world. He wasn't allowed the peace and happiness his world would bring to him.

He picked the brush up from the chestnut colored paint. Gently sliding the broom down her face, he traced the hair he used to love so much. He had lost count of how many times he had caught himself stroking her soft hair. The little one had the same color and he found himself playing with her hair when he rocked her to sleep.

Brown changed to pink as his world was given a touch of brightness. A simple dress, made by her mother, was worn by the tiny girl. He wanted to smile at the mood of the painting. It was happy, peaceful. Everything he had lost.

He set the brush down. His eyes bore into the eyes of the women in the picture. He wanted one to move, to prove to him that he wasn't just wishing and that his world would give him a sign that he could converse with them. Neither of them moved.

Dropping to the floor, he ignored the pain on his bottom and stared up at the painting. They were above him, but still looked ahead of them. They hadn't even noticed he had left. The painter dropped his head with tears spilling from his blue eyes.

His world was nothing but a picture, never to move and never to feel. What he wanted was just image of his world. His world had been ripped from his arms by the harsh hands of fate. He would never hear his daughter's laughter or feel is wife's smooth skin. Because they were gone. Taken from him without warning.

Painting was his purpose in life. He'd known since he was a young boy. His artwork had given him the money he needed to live. His purpose united with his world at one time. The energy he had for his purpose was disappearing so rapidly like his world had.

He was gone for only two days and a night. There was a woman on the other side of the town who wanted a painting of herself above the fireplace. He went left early morning and by mid-afternoon, he was beginning on the painting. Like always, he put all his energy in the painting. But he wasn't finished by nightfall and stayed the night. He finished late in the afternoon the next day.

When he had made it home, he was met with the authorities. The damn disease had taken his world from him. His house was burned and his child and wife buried. He wasn't able to see them as they were buried. The casket blocked his vision.

He had a new house but it wasn't filled with the same comfort he loved. There was no laughter, no crying, no calls. No one was talking to him, holding his hand, or kissing his bearded face. He didn't have a body to hold, hair to touch, or a face to give a blush to.

How many painting had he painted of the two? Ten? Twenty? He wasn't sure. Each painting of them was of what he saw of them. There were many of the young one sleeping, running around, or playing with his paint. Many more of his wife, hugging their daughter and singing to her and cleaning around the house.

His hands were stained with colors. Colors of days and nights, marked onto his skin. His hands ached, his eyes burned, his head spun. Did he have any more energy left in him? He hadn't slept or eaten in days or stopped his painting since he began. How long would it be until his hands fell off from two much use? Would he starve to death first or pass out before they vanished?

He looked back at the painting. That was the last memory of them. She was holding her to say goodbye up close. Her hand was out, wanting him to hold her. He simply touched her hand and left with a single goodbye. He was so sure he would see them in a few short days.

The two blue eyes he had once known were blank as they stared at the wall. With tears of his last memory of his world falling down his rugged face, he stood up off the cold floor and to his dull, passionless creation.

He stared at the painting, eye to eye with the two girls. Death stole them from him without a warning. Inside, he was filled with nothing but emptiness and despair while they continued to smile with their painted eyes. He felt like he had since the day his world burned—Hollow. His sweat and tears mixed on his face. His body was tired. Slowly, he sat on the floor and attempted to calm his breathing.

In front of him was a small painting he had kicked. His foot had hit it in the middle, pushing the papers back. He reached forwards, picking up the canvas and dragging it in his lap. He pulled the picture back to the front.

His daughter was smiling at him. A true smile. She sat in his wife's lap. She was looking down at their daughter, but the little girl was grinning at him. Her wide blue eyes shined with true happiness in his direction.

He had forgotten when it was painted. It must not have been long before for he was able to get their true happiness. Energy and passion were gleaming from their faces. The painting was as all the others should have been. It was beautiful. It showed his world, the world he used to live before they were eyes flooded with tears and groans of sorrow slipped from between his chapped lips. He laid his body on the floor, holding his ruined world in his arms he shook as he took his poison out of his coat pocket and pressed it to his lips the last image before dying was his world smiling at him. Rob wiped away tears that were falling from kane's ice blue eyes taking heed of his gut feelings"Kane,baby it's ok that our past,I'm here come back to me hun." He was not prepared for the taller man's bear hug and sobbing."shhh it's okay I got you "he said holding kane tightly.


	3. Chapter 3

SESSION 3-Kane was at the door into his next life when he passed through it he saw the familar face of his brother Mark, only younger more boyish distancing him self to remote view it all played out in front of him

"You ready, Jacob?"

"Yeah. Reckon I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

The boys, Isaac, almost sixteen, and Jacob, only thirteen, gulped nervously and looked to their right; down the line of the men to where their Commanding Officer, Major General Sterling Price, stood. He was waiting for the exact right moment to send his men out, the exact right moment to lay on the line the lives of thousands of men.

Some were impatient with the length of time before a battle. They muttered to one another and cursed and stole looks at whoever was in charge, urging him to make up his mind and send them out to the battlefield. It happened every time. Men would get riled up and threaten to charge out alone ¾ which of course they never did ¾ if the goddamn General didn't soon give orders. The waiting was the hardest part. Some men put so much thought into what would happen out there in the field in the hours before the fight, that they would begin to cry and make at least a dozen friends promise to write home on their behalf if they didn't make it.

Jacob and Isaac never felt so impatient, they didn't want to rush out and get killed. If they had it their way they would slip away from everyone else and run for all they were worth back home. Back to their mama's and papa's and little sisters and older sisters alike. All waiting with worry lines creasing their foreheads, and eyes clouded with suspicion at every rider that passed.

"He might be bringin' news of Sam's goin' from us to Heaven above," mothers would whisper to their husbands. And the husbands would stand at the windows and watch the riders go by, willing them not to stop but at the same time wishing they would, so that their thin and worried wives could stop being worried, so that the incessant questions from the neighbours: "Have you heard from dear William?" "Have you any news of Robert?" would end. Sometimes the riders stopped. Sometimes they didn't.

"This is it," Isaac said nervously. He watched the men tense as if waiting to pounce.

Jacob looked across the field to where the Union men lay waiting. _Are there boys over there like me? Are there other boys just like me who think this war is pointless? Who wish it would be over? Is there a Yankee boy just twelve years old with is heart in his throat? Is he lookin' at me without knowin' it? Same as I'm lookin' at him and maybe not knowin' it?_

And then the boys in Blue were up and running at them! Shouting and shrieking like banshees, eating up the distance between themselves and the Rebs.

Jacob and Isaac and every other man they could see, turned to look at Price. He looked to be as surprised as they were. He turned and gave the order for a charge to his bugler, but he'd hardly played the first note and everyone was already gone. By god those Yankees had come up quick, but to hell with them all if they thought they were going to take any one of them without a fight!

Isaac ran and fired at the same time. He was no great shot but with the thick swarm of Blue coming straight at them, it would have been hard to miss.

Jacob was terrified at the sight of them all, so terrified that he felt he couldn't move. But when Isaac, his fast friend since they'd met up soon after enlisting, jumped forward with no hesitations, he followed suit. And after the men around him started falling and the blood began to run on both sides, he realized that he was not being hit, and this gave him such comfort that he felt brave. Not only brave, but powerful! Invincible even! He fired and shouted with a vengeance. All around him there was mayhem and chaos.

It was fantastic.

And that's when the Mine Ball came.

It tore into Jacob's stomach and went out his left side. It stopped him dead and even threw him off his feet. He lay writhing on the ground with his hands pressed over the fire in his insides. His comrades ran by on both sides and a few even went over him, though they did their best not to step right on him. There was blood everywhere and not all of it was his own. He squeezed his eyes shut and then there was nothing but darkness.

"Jacob? Jaa-cob?"

_Fire and brimstone_, Jacob thought. _I'm in hell! Lord help me I did all I could! _The pain was so bad he regretted not listening to his mother and Sunday school teacher when they tried to tell him what happened to boys that went against the word of the Lord.

But he opened his eyes, and there was Isaac. Praise be it was Isaac! And he was still alive!

"It was…" Jacob tried to say, but his tongue weighed ten pounds. "Water," he croaked.

Isaac disappeared, then came back with a dipperful.

"It was… a good fight," Jacob said through gritted teeth. He tried to smile for his friend's sake, but he just couldn't do it.

"Yeah, it was a great fight. We beat them Yankees, Jacob. Pounded 'em into the ground." Isaac looked real sad. But not crying sad, the kind of sad that you try to hide, but can't, and that makes you even sadder.

"I… I'm glad… about that," Jacob said, and he managed a small smile this time. Then he coughed and nearly fainted from the pain. He spit and there was blood in it. Lots of blood.

"Where… am I?" he asked. _If not in hell,_he added silently.

Isaac swallowed hard. "Temporary Army Hospital."

And then he knew.

Jacob was not a boy to cry, especially not in front of someone he respected so much as he respected Isaac. But it hit him so hard all of a sudden that he just couldn't hold it back.

"I'm…I'm dyin'. Ain't I… Isaac?" he cried.

Isaac squeezed his hand hard, just like his mama used to do when he was sick and needed reassurance. "No, Jacob. Don't you say that. And wipe those damn tears so's you can save your strength."

"I'm dyin'."

"No!" Isaac said harshly, tears springing to his own eyes. "You're gonna beat that hunk of lead, and when you get better, we're gonna go down to that fishin' hole I told you about. Back home in Missouri. Remember I told you about the catfish? And we'll see your Daddy's good team of hosses, just like you promised you'd show me…"

Jacob shook his head. "No. Listen to me, Isaac. Please." He stopped for breath. "Write…write my Mama and Daddy… please?"

Isaac swiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He called for paper and a pencil, and a young girl dropped them down on the table which Jacob lay on before hurriedly brushing past. _She's no older than Katie,_ Jacob thought absently. Katie was his older sister back home. Though that girl didn't look as kind as Katie. "Reckon she's got…lots of wounded… to… mind," he said aloud without thinking.

Isaac took it as fever babble and prepared to write quickly.

"Address it to Josiah and…Hattie Harper… of Jackson County," Jacob said. And he directed how the letter should be written. He told Isaac to be sure it was signed with love and delivered promptly, then he gave one final convulsion, pushed his hands to his inflamed side, and laid his head back on the table. he saw as his spirt left his body

Isaac closing his eyes, then turned as heran from the hospital and the whole damned war.


	4. Chapter 4

SESSION 4-"I am getting really good at this "I smile at rob."good good baby just remember I am here "I start my meditation and get to my seem different I am not remote viewing I see from eyes i know are mine.I start to tell my story" I am In the attic closet, in the corner under the little square window, there is the place where I heard the sound come from outside.

It was a terrible sound. Horrible.

I was only looking for my wooden slippers.

The closet was full of junk. Things collected over my parents lives, memories to cherished to throw away, cramped into a tiny five foot by eight foot space. Boxes and books were stacked at least five feet off of the ground and were in constant danger of toppling. My mother always said how she was going to come up and clean out the mess.

But she never did.

Maybe she had forgotten and I mean, I it was easy to…what, with the war going on and all.

At first, I didn't know what had happened. It was early still, maybe a little after eight o'clock and I had only been up for a few hours. My mother had asked me to go up and get my old wooden slippers and then go out and help the other girls clean the avenue in front of our house. The streets were littered with war-time debris. Spent shells. Still steaming rounds. Dirt and grime, the shadows of people who once had lives but now only lived in a shell of themselves. I still remember how a single piece of flyer paper or posters, little bits of paper lanterns one so bright, now dark, would float on that soon to be poisoned wind in a few moments time. How could I forget?

The raids by the Allies had leveled so much that the government had ordered all able-bodied girls to go out and help clear the rubble strewn streets so that the Red Cross could get in to aid those who needed it the most. I can still recall how the world looked that balmy warm August morning day in 1945. The sun had not yet risen but was just starting to creep its way over the horizon. The grass in places was still so green and riddled with flowers in the gardens that had survived the shelling that even the burn marks from artillery fire could dim their liquid colors of blue and red and gold.

We weren't expecting anything because the air raid siren had been going off for days, and each time it had been a false alarm. When the siren went off that time, we should have listened, though nothing in our power could have spared us, no force in Heaven or Earth could have protected us. It all happened so fast. As a school girl I understood, at least I thought I did, what the war was about and I suppose that at twelve years old, you don't really care about adult affairs. Looking back, perhaps I should have.

I suppose it was about seven or so after eight when I went upstairs to our family junk room to look for those old slippers so I could hurry out and help. Opening the closet door, I brushed aside my mothers silk kimono, its sheer soft fabric cool and gentle, like the earth's winter breath. It rivaled the sky with its blue color, and it seemed to shimmer in the sunlight filtering through the tiny window high up in the corner, making the reds and purples and greens semi-transparent on it. She only wore it once a year, on the anniversary of her marriage to my father. To her, it was the most special thing she owned. Moving past it carefully as not to tear it, I entered the closet and began rummaging, just happening to glance over at the green plastic clock hanging on the wall.

8:10 AM. The hands ticked, ticked, jumping slightly with each second, slowly revolving around the face of the clock. I paid the time little mind, my focus on trying to not knock over one the precarious stacks but I thought that time sure does fly by fast when your half asleep and eager to get going somewhere you are already late for.

Warm sunlight fell upon my shoulder, the traps of my silk dress digging into my skin as I climbed over a box. The light was comforting, alive. It was a relief to be able to feel something like the sun. It always made me forget, for a while, about the war, like a mother's touch when you cannot sleep at night due to the planes roaring overhead.

While I was digging through the boxes, tossing aside somewhat carelessly the items I did not need, still searching for my shoes, I heard the sound.

A long drawn out wail. Painful. Mournful. A low note that was stretched out like a rubber band to transform into a high pitched scream of warning, shattering the morning peace, before going back to its low growl only to begin to scream again seconds later.

At first, I paid it no mind but the siren kept going. Curious, I stopped digging and stood up, looking at the window, as if it held the answer. The siren did not usually stay on this long.

It was 8:13 AM.

While the siren continued its shrieking growling cry, I climbed up onto an old crate directly below the window and once upon it, I pushed myself onto my tip-toes, putting me at eye level with the glass of the window. The window itself was covered with a film of fine yellow dust, a reminder of the time that had passed since it was last cleaned. I took a piece of old clothing I found cast aside, hoping my mother didn't need it and rubbed the dust away.

The dirt abraded with a WUP, WUP and warm clear light fell through the glass, lighting up my face, as white and clear as a fresh snow.

I saw nothing. Nothing at all was outside. No Allied planes, no fires, Just the ravages of a war and nature fighting to reclaim what was hers. There were still large patches among the green of burned ground, seared black. A few hundred feet away, I saw the beautiful red flower pagoda, its blossoms miraculously in full bloom, the pinkish white flowers shimmering. Overhead, one of our weather survey planes droned by and was soon gone but there was nothing else.

Unease began to grow in my stomach. I had heard the stories of the violent raids and incendiary drops on other cities close by, but so far, nothing like that had really happened here, just mostly shooting. There were rumors that the Americans had something "special" planned for us. I did not believe it.

I looked at the clock out of reflex.

It was 8:15 AM.

_**FLASH!**_

It erupted out on the horizon, brighter than the stars, brighter than a thousand _asahis_. For a second, I was blinded, the white light reaching, questing, probing through the window glass, the dust not stopping it. The light seemed to crawl through the wood and it was as if I had looked directly into a camera's flashbulb, my eyes painful constricted so fast that it hurt. Shielding my eyes, I ducked down from the window, but the light still came. A few seconds of silence came next and then…..then the roar came.

I had never heard such a sound. It was awful. A low pitched rumbling snarling roar, like the earth itself was ripping apart from the inside. Thunder growled, exploded and then I blinked, my eyes watering and looked back out the window. Hell had formed there, in the air, with flame and clouds of smoke and fire, brimstone and heat, rising in a strange mushroom cloud. I felt as if the demons of the underworld had been released, for nothing man could ever make would look like that…that horrible fiery cloud.

I saw a white wave of smoke and power crackle out of the cloud, spreading across the ground and in the air like a snaking fog, faster than my eyes could track. Around me, my house began to creak and the glass cracked, splitting in its frame. To my horror, I watched my friends house explode in a wave of fire and smoke, and then I felt the floors beneath me buckle and my ears popped once, and suddenly, I could hear nothing and the pressure was so great I could hardly breath. I turned to run, to scream, to reach for my mother my heart pounding its rhythm of fear but I never reached the door of the closet for it was no longer there.

At that instant, my house collapsed on top of me, like a house of cards smashed aside by the hand of God. Timbers fell like trees and glass exploded like shooting knives. Blackness took me and I knew no more for an eternity.

When I awoke, my home was gone.

My world, utterly destroyed. Nothing I saw around me was familiar now.

My body is in so much pain. My skin is no longer the chocolate tan that it was but rather a deep ugly black, twisted, ruined.

I can't move my fingers….they aren't there anymore. My left hand is fused together in a useless charred ball. I try to scream, to cry but my throat is seared and no tears are left. I look with my ruined sight and see a woman, a single woman, frozen in place in the middle of the street, her legs and arms now frozen solid into a position of complete and unbridled terror, her body blackened and crisped liked burned wood. I could see her baby in her arms, unmoving, like her. Around me, on walls that still stood in the obliteration, white shadows of people were burned into the wood and brick, like a snapshot fo the person they had once been. There was nothing left of them now but ash.

The world is over. I take all of this in, in shocked quiet disjointed acceptance. This was not real. This is a nightmare, some horrid demon spawned dream. Did I not go to confession? Did I forget my prayers? Had I angered an ancestor?

I did not know. All I wanted to do is wake up from the hell, this burned and sickened world that was now mine. I looked, searched for any sign that this was not reality, my hair gone, my ears melted into my skull.

With my bleeding eyes, I saw my mother's kimono.

_Her kimono._

Charred and torn, tattered, it was melted onto the splintered end of a house joist, flapping, flapping like a bird's wings in a storm, its once vibrant colors seared and bleached out of the blue silk. I then saw my mother's hand, point up out of the rubble and my father...I did not see my father…I could not find him. My mother's kimono flapped twice more in the hot burning air before ripping loose and vanishing into the ash-filled morning.

Panic began to rise up inside me as I realized that I was not dreaming, that my family, my world, my life was gone. Terror and sorrow met and married and the child the produced was the only thing I could do.

I began to scream…..to scream for anyone left alive, for anyone to hear me, to save me, but no one came. Jesus…..he would save us. I raised my eyes to the fire ripped sky, burning red and orange, and called out for him, begging him for the mercy we needed, to kill me now, to send me to my family. What started in my throat as a burning as I called, became a new fire all of its own as I screamed at the top of my lungs, hoping God would hear me.

_"Shu Jesusu awaremi tamari!"_

_Our Lord Jesus, have pit on us…_

Over and over I screamed this, never hearing an answer. God had forsaken me…had forsaken all of us. A single planed roared over head, a silver bird, and as it flies by, I know that I am doomed as the screams begin around me, the shrieks of those dying who were not lucky enough to be turned to ash. I know all of this as I lay in my coffin of rubble. I look over at the standing woman and her baby and both crumble into black power" Rob clicking off the recorder brings me back and i know now it's time to review all of our sessions

*next chapther will be the last i think*


End file.
